I Think I Just Rage-Quit the Car?

The problem always starts when I put on boots. I fucking HATE wearing boots. Maybe it's my super high arches that started this abhorrence? Maybe it's that my socks are always too small or too short? Who knows.

However, the most vivid memory of my childhood is the scrunched sock, half-on, half-off my foot while trying to frolic outside but I am too distracted by my stupid sock to have any fun.

This isn't fucking Mordor where you can just stop,
mid-quest, and have an existential crisis. 

Because, let's face it, one does not simply pull your boot off and adjust your sock when it's -40. You just have to deal; this isn't fucking Mordor where you can just stop mid-quest and have an existential crisis. This is Canadian winter, Frodo.

Canadian. Winter.

And as I've aged, my sock-boot issue has grown, blossomed as it were, just like my feet.  In fact, my dogs are sassy, large, and unwilling to be held down by other peoples' notions of "acceptable" and "appropriate for the weather."  They're like cheap drag queens, and my bitches wanna werk!  When you think of my feet, I want you to envision Chewbacca in a pink prom dress. Now you get it.

However, it's slushy and snowy and generally approaching 0 Kelvin (not 0 Celcius, which isn't even cold), so boots were necessary last week.

Oh, I'd tried to go out in shoes, as I'm sure you guessed. Only, I stepped in a massive puddle IN THE GARAGE and got a delightful slush-soaker.

Cursing under my breath, I amble back inside in search of socks; I relent that socks are probably necessary, at least, while at breakfast. Stupid-slush-soaker-ruining-my-shoe-plans-mid-winter.

I try to put a dry tube sock on my sweaty, freezing, water-logged foot. It gets stuck just passed my toes. Husband pokes his head in from the garage and shouts (nicely), "The kids are in the car. You comin'?"

I bark something back and tug at my stuck sock. I twist it and get it to my heel but now it is bunched everywhere and there isn't enough sock left to pull up. And it is twisted. And stuck.

I'm breathing heavily just recounting this to you, and it's a week later. I think there's some PTSD going on cuz I kept having panicky flashbacks last week, too. This must be what The Hulk/Bruce Banning goes through afterwards. Lordy.

Husband arrives again and says (nicely), "Honey? We have to leave or we'll be late. You ok?"

I rip and tug frantically at the other sock on. I muffle a squeak and bang my feet against the carpet to try and get the socks on properly while I walk to my shoes. My soaked shoes.

Gah. It is gonna have to be boots. I inhale deeply and put my foot in.

Something happens where my sock gets caught on the top of the tongue but I thought I could just push and get the damn boot on. So, when I put my heel in, it pulls the lining down just enough to bunch up under my heel.

I'm sweating now. I hope you appreciate what I'm going through just to tell you a story.  Good lord, I need therapy.

So, I pull my heel up and then smash it down again, only now my foot's in, the heel is ok, and the top of my sock is pulling on my toes like quicksand; the more I wiggle my toes to free them, the more confined they become.

The garage door opens and the truck begins to back out. Gaaaaah!

I shove my second foot in the boot. Instantly, I remember that I never wear socks with boots for this exact reason. I limp out the door like a rageful zombie.

The next part of the story happened both quickly and in slow-motion.

I head out of the garage and towards the waiting truck.  I'm already agitated at my footwear, feeling confined and suddenly I know exactly what it's like to be Tara from Sons of Anarchy.  Tara is like my toes, stuck and twisted into a horrible shape in a sock and even worse, in a boot she didn't want to be a part of, and she knows she has to be free, but there's no help coming from anywhere so she's gonna have to figure it out herself. Only my toes aren't quite as smart as Tara.  Oh, they're as aggressive, just not as smart, so they're trying to wiggle to freedom in vain.

But I have to face facts.  My toes are bound. Also, I have to wear my winter coat. FRICK!  See, I intended to wear my hoodie and vest with sneakers in this balmy -13 C day, but the soaker ruined that plan and in my haste to put on fricking socks, I am now wearing the Trifecta of Doom: boots, hoodie and winter coat.

For the win?
FTW, anyway. You decide which one.

I climbed in the passenger seat and the kids ask, "Momma! Are we gonna be late?"

I say, sweetly, sweating just a little, "No, darlings."

My toes screamed and faked a miscarriage
to try and get out of my boot and sock.  

We head down the driveway and turn onto the main road. My toes are faking a miscarriage in hopes of getting the hell outta my Charming boots and socks, and I'm trying not to focus on it but it's preoccupying my brain.  And that's when it happened: Husband's passenger seat belt locked because the mechanism is quirky, just as my foot got a weird cramp because my toes were crunched in my fricking boots and I couldn't bend down to fix the damn boots because I was cinched in by the fricking seat belt, huge ass coat and damned hoodie! GAAAAAAH!

So, I may have, kinda, somewhat... fuck it.
I. Lost. My. Shit.

Clawing at the belt that had me inextricably pinned, and gasping for air, I smashed my hand at the window controls figuring if I could just get some cold air on my face I might make it to our breakfast date with friends. Might.

I undid the seat belt and tried to take off my coat but the belt is still wrapped up in the coat sleeve and hood. Also, I'm maybe sitting on bits of it so no matter how I shift, I just get more tangled? And it doesn't matter how much yoga I do, because when I try to pull off my coat in a car, my arm gets stuck in a horrible angle above my head and the shoulder blade goes into a panic pain thing of its own and now I'm writhing and sweating and freaking the FUCK out.  And it's not getting any cooler in here. I must've missed the window button when I hit it initially.

Trying to remain calm, I mash my paw into the window button again. Nothing happens. I press it again. NOTHING!

Me: HUSBAND! WINDOW!
Husband: Whaaa? Are you ok?
Me: (Like Satan) WINDOW! OPEN!
Husband: That's cuz the child locks are ... Uh, I'll unlock it.
Me: (sounds of a demon gargling virgin goat's blood)

I greedily gulp the cool air once the window is down. Deep, long, cold breaths enter my lungs, freezing my need to murder and pillage.  The cold air cools my rage and makes me able to get out of the stupid spiderweb that is my coat and seat belt.  Soon, I can even Hulk outta my coat. And get my feet outta those mofo boots.

Sweet Home Alabama, the freedom.

And so I decided I can probably put up the window. So, I calmly, gently, push the button to raise the window up and there is a horrible crunching sound. A terrible, crunching sound. A awful, terrible, broken-glass sound.

Husband looked at me like I'd just performed a vasectomy on him while he slept, without his consent.  Or, like, you could also say "in shocked disbelief."

Me: Uuuuh...
Husband: What did you do?
Me: I just pushed the button.
Husband: Like, rage-pushed?
Me: No! Promise!
Kiddo#1: I think she was ok, Daddy. It was after she stopped sweating...
Kiddo#2: Actually she's still sweaty, right Momma? It takes a few times to stop sweating.
Me: Ok everyone. Thanks.
Husband: Will the window go up?
Me: Nuh-uh.

I wiggled my freed toes, gulped in the refreshing, calming cold air and felt wonderful. Felt happy.  Euphoric. Felt... kinda cold, really. Geez. This window stuck down is kinda chilly. The kids said nothing of the cold, but their snot-scicles spoke volumes. I looked at Husband.  He glanced back at me, sighed and turned the car around for home while I texted our friends that we would NOT actually make it to breakfast today. 

I carried my boots, socks, coat and pride back into the house and sighed triumphantly.

I turned on the fireplace and warmed my drag queens by the fire while the kids ate cereal and husband made himself some coffee and toast.

Just another day in suburbia. Oh, and for Christmas this year, I got a $600 mechanism for Husband's truck window on the passenger side.

Meh. Beats a new vaccum.